“Camus: I Want to Know,” by Bob Kaufman

Camus, I want to know, does the cold knife of wind plunge

noiselessly into the soul, finally

Camus, I want to know, does the seated death wing as sud-

den, swifter than leaden Fascist bullets …

Camus, sand-faced rebel from Olympus, brain lit, shining

cleanly, on far historical peaks …

Camus, I want to know, does the jagged fender resemble

Franco, standing spiked at Madrid’s Goyaesque

wound

Camus, I want to know, the dull aesthetics, rubbery thump of

exploding wheels, the tick-pock of dust on steel

Camus, I want to know, does it clackety clack like that destiny

Train, shrieking to the Finland station

Camus, I want to know, does the sorrowful cry of unwilling

companions console the dying air …

Camus, I want to know, does the cry of protested death sing

like binding vow of lovers’ nod

Camus, I want to know, does the bitter taste of jagged glass

sweeten the ripped tongue, dried

Camus, I want to know, does the sour taste of

promise flee the dying mouth and eyes and lip

Camus, I want to know, does the liberated blood bubble

to the soil, microscopic Red Seas

Camus, I want to know, does the cyclop headlight illuminate

nerve-lined pits of final desires

Camus, I want to know, does the secret hoard of unanswered

queries scream for ultimate solutions

Camus, I want to know, does the eye of time blink in antic-

pation of recaptured seasons enriched

Camus, I want to know, does the sliver of quartz sensoulize

the clash of flesh on chrome and bone

Camus, I want to know, does the piercing spear of death

imitate denied desire, internal crucifixion

Camus, I want to know, does the spiritual juice flee as slowly,

as the Saharablood of prophets’ sons

Camus, I want to know, does it mirror the Arab virgin, her

sex impaled on some soldier’s wine bottle

Camus, I shall follow you over itching floors of black deserts,

across roofs of burning palms …

Camus, I shall crawl on sandpaper knees on oasis bottoms of

secret Bedouin wells, cursing …

Camus, I shall reach the hot sky, my brown mouth filled with

fragile telephones, sans rings…

Camus, I shall mumble long-cherished gibberish through

layers of protesting heat demanding …

Camus, I shall scream but one awesome question, does death exist?

Camus, I want to know. . .